


when it's after dark anything goes

by arzoensis



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, gardening is a metaphor for love, perhaps too many words on daily life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-20 01:41:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16546388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arzoensis/pseuds/arzoensis
Summary: "No plans," Brenden says with a shrug, hanging up his chestguard. "Why, were you thinking of something?"Martin's plans are, at their foundation, the same as they've always been: go back to Vancouver. Live in the penthouse. Play video games and work out, though one is a little higher priority than the other. Eventually, get back on the ice. Teach a goaltending class. The usual.The one thing that's different is asking Brenden to live with him. Co-habitation, as it were. It isn't like they're not practically living together already, but. But.It's different. That's all.





	when it's after dark anything goes

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from "After Dark," off of Drake's new, not great album. But the song slaps, and _someone_ has to keep titling things after Drake songs. At least I didn't name it after Ginuwine's "Pony."
> 
> Thanks to Austin for giving it a read for me, and finding the typos where I started giving up.

Martin is extremely nervous about summer. It’s the first one he’s living through while dating someone—which he is _not_ ashamed to admit—and he’s not sure what to do. What he wants is to ask Brenden to move in with him in Vancouver: his friend has a penthouse he’s never in thanks to his job, and Martin usually rents the guest room over the summer. It’s nice, right on the water, with a rooftop garden and pool. Plenty of room for entertaining, or just hanging out.

Brenden usually lives with his family if he’s in BC. They’re nice and sweet and have absolutely converted Brenden’s room into a craft studio, but they always welcome him home with open arms, if not a bed fit for his size. Martin would know. He’s stayed over once, crammed onto Brenden’s twin mattress surrounded by Mrs. Dillon’s sewing machines and organizers full of fabric and yarn. He imagines that after spending that sleepless night barely breathing in case the bed squeaked suspiciously, Brenden would like a little space. Privacy, maybe.

At the same time, they’re practically living together during the season. Sure, they each have their own condo, but they’re in the same complex and always at each other’s place. He doesn’t know if it’s too much to ask, to suggest to Brenden that he wants them to live together over the summer too. Maybe they’re just a season thing. And there’s that thing people say about distance and hearts growing fonder, or whatever. Are they at that stage of their relationship—the staying with each other when there isn’t a reason to? What if they’re not? It’s not like you can just ask if you’re dating in _that_ way.

In the end, Martin doesn’t even need to stress over it. They’re lounging on the balcony, drinking what’s left in their fridge while the sun sets over San Jose. It’s just starting to cool down, their bottles sweating condensation.

“So, what are we doing this summer?” Brenden asks.

Martin immediately swallows his cider wrong, splutters until he finally catches his breath. Brenden reaches over and pats him on the back.

“Are you okay? Should I not have brought it up?”

“No, no. Just, I wasn’t expecting that.” Martin coughs, clears his throat. “I had a plan and it involved you, but I wasn’t sure if I should ask. Not in a bad way.”

Brenden’s eyebrows are inching up to his hairline. Martin sighs, then tells him all about the penthouse. Where it is, how it’s empty over the summer, that he’s stayed there the past couple of years.

“I was gonna ask if you wanted to live there with me. We’d have it to ourselves except maybe for a week in August. It’s really nice, but it gets a little lonely and boring when you’re by yourself. There’s plenty of room for the two of us, so. If you don’t have other plans...” Martin can feel his face heating up as he rambles. He doesn’t know why he’s so anxious about this. It’s not like they’re not used to the intimacy or anything.

Brenden hums thoughtfully. Martin watches him roll the bottle around on its base, leaving a ring of condensation on the arm of the chair. He says, “I’d be happy to live with you. On one condition.”

Martin swears he can feel his palms sweating. “Sure, anything.”

“As long as your friend knows that his lovely penthouse is turning into our summer sex bungalow,” Brenden says, his voice dripping with gravitas, “I’d love to move in with you.”

He’s cackling as Martin splutters, knocking his chair over in his rush to shove at Brenden.

 

Their flight touches down in the middle of the afternoon, and they make it to the apartment building before 4 pm. It’s still bright and sunny outside, thankfully not as hot as it usually is in San Jose.

“Okay, you weren’t kidding about this place,” Brenden says, putting his hockey bag down in the foyer. “This is pretty awesome.”

Martin’s grinning to himself as he closes the door behind him. “The bedroom’s this way.”

They roll their luggage in, park them by the closet. It’s a pretty big room with its own bathroom, a closet to fit all their clothes and their luggage underneath. Brenden explores a little, opening doors and throwing back curtains, _ooh_ ing and _aah_ ing at the view. Martin points out the living room and terrace, shows him the kitchen. They stash their gear out on the terrace, where it’ll air out after being shoved in a cargo hold for too long.

“My friend’s car is parked downstairs, and he says we can use it if we want,” Martin says. “Though if we’re just going to stay in the neighborhood it’ll be easier to walk.”

“Sounds good. You hungry?” Brenden asks. “Wanna go get lunch and unpack later?”

“We’re literally never gonna unpack,” Martin says, following Brenden out to the living room.

Brenden shrugs, steps into his slides. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

 

They pick up a six pack from a local brewery on their way home, pleasantly full from sandwiches at a local café. Brenden reads what seems like every single label on the shelf before he goes back to his second choice. It’s almost six, and their late lunch definitely means they’re gonna be hungry when it’s too late to actually get food, but they can cross that bridge when they get there.

Brenden says he wants to sit out on the terrace on their way up in the elevator, and it _is_ a nice day out; Martin wouldn’t mind as long as he gets to sit in the shade and avoid turning into a lobster. Brenden strips down to his shorts as soon as he gets through the door, because he might as well be a nudist. Martin stares at his arms while he rummages through the kitchen drawers for a bottle opener, cracks open two bottles. He’s allowed, anyway.

“We’re definitely not going to unpack now,” Martin says, amused. Brenden flicks a bottle cap at him.

“Like you were gonna unpack today anyway,” Brenden says. Martin can’t even disagree, because he’s absolutely correct. He walks out onto the terrace, takes a deep breath of the salty air. “Gotta say, I definitely missed this.”

Martin helps set up the chairs under the awning, angling them so they can get a good view of the inlet. He curls up on his lounger, keeping as much skin in the shade as he can. Brenden stretches, wriggles his toes in the sun and sighs happily.

A comfortable silence settles over the two of them. Martin thinks he could probably take a nap out here, a light breeze keeping the heat at bay. He watches the clouds shift lazily in the sky.

“Is that a planter?” Brenden asks, pointing with the bottle at the boxes lining the far side of the wall, under the kitchen window.

“Mm? Oh, yeah,” Martin says, craning his neck to look. “They came with the house, but I’ve never used them. I’ve killed a cactus.”

Brenden hums. “Would anyone mind if I used them? I think I’ll try growing some herbs. Maybe some stuff just for show.”

“I’m sure Derek wouldn’t mind,” Martin replies. “I don’t think either of us have used it.”

Brenden nods, drinks some of his beer. “You know, I think that’s the first time you mentioned your friend’s name,” he says, half to himself.

Martin shrugs. “I guess it never really came up.”

“It’s not bad or anything,” Brenden replies. “Just kinda funny.”

“He knows you’re here,” Martin says, sudden. What he wants to say is _I tell people about you_. Instead, he says, “He doesn’t mind. He’s a nice guy. I think you’d like him? Kinda bro-y.”

“Bro-y,” Brenden repeats, fond. Then, after a pause, “I’m not really concerned about it.” He smiles at Martin, and he knows that Brenden gets it. “I guess I don’t know as much about your life here in Vancouver. It’s good to get to know this side of you.”

“It’s not that different from the other side of me,” Martin mumbles. He carefully presses his hand against Brenden’s, lets him knot their fingers together. He can feel Brenden looking at him while he pretends to read the label on his beer bottle.

Brenden gently rubs his thumb over Martin’s knuckles, a slow, steady pattern.

 

They manage to make a run to the grocery store right before it closes, picking up some stuff for a quick dinner. Brenden connects his phone to the speaker system with some swearing and lots of robotic scolding, and Martin hums along to the playlist he puts on as he cuts up vegetables for their salad.

Martin finds a bottle of white wine in the fridge, pours glasses for the both of them. They eat dinner out on the terrace, because now that it’s right there it’s hard to move away from it. The sun has long set by now, but Vancouver’s lights are shimmering around them as they watch the waves lap against the docks.

“Cheers,” Brenden says, tapping his glass against Martin’s. “If all of this is you showing me that you’re a romantic at heart, I submit.”

Martin snorts, reaches his fork over to stab at one of Brenden’s cherry tomatoes. “I don’t have a romantic bone in my body.”

Brenden laughs quietly. “You really think so? I think you’re plenty romantic. You just show it differently.”

Martin swallows, stares at his salad like it might have the right answers. He says, slowly, “I like showing you that you mean a lot to me. I don’t know if that’s the same thing.”

Brenden bumps against him, smiles when he glances up. “It is, Martin.”

Martin leans against his shoulder, watches as the ocean ripples beneath them.

 

Martin does manage to unpack some of his suitcase while Brenden’s in the shower. Like, it’s mostly just his toiletries bag, plus the underwear and pajamas he changed into after his own shower, but that’s good enough for today, he thinks as he sits on the edge of the bed.

Brenden comes out in his boxer briefs, very shirtless and tan, his hair tied up in a little bun. It’s a little distracting.

“I’ve never seen that before,” Martin says, motioning to Brenden’s hair.

Brenden laughs, self-consciously touches the tiny knot at the back of his head. “It’s been getting a little too long to keep dry. I found a hair tie in the drawer.”

“It’s cute.” Martin reaches out and Brenden sits next to him, tilts his head so Martin can give it a poke. “I always wondered if you could tie it back.”

“You like it?” Brenden asks, sounding pleased. “I thought it looked alright in the mirror, but maybe I’ll do this more often.”

“It looks better than when you got a mohawk,” Martin says, pulling his hand away and curling it in the sheets. “I like your hair when it’s long.”

“You really didn’t like the shaved sides?” Brenden asks, lighthearted. He absently drops his hand onto Martin’s, and it’s so warm.

“I mean, it was good. I just like this better. When I think of you it’s always with long hair.” Martin realizes too late that he said that last part out loud. He can feel his ears turning pink.

“You think about me a lot, huh?” Brenden’s voice is so _gleeful_. Martin has some mild regrets.

Brenden’s chuckling as he leans in, kisses him on the corner of his mouth. It’s easy to turn into it, let Brenden kiss him slowly, like they have all the time in the world. They kind of do, really. No teammates banging on the door asking to hang out. No parents to get anxious about. It’s nice. Really nice.

His hand is gently resting on Martin’s thigh, bleeding warmth where it’s pressed against skin and fabric. Brenden pulls away slightly, and Martin follows him for a moment, eyes flicking from his wet lips to his dark eyes.

“You wanna bone?” Brenden asks, deadpan.

“I,” Martin says, “may actually hate you.”

Brenden cackles, leaning his forehead against Martin’s shoulder until he can catch his breath. “Sorry, sorry.”

“You’re lucky I like you,” Martin says, though the grumpiness in his voice is undercut a little by the way that he’s tilting his neck, letting Brenden press tiny, biting kisses against his skin.

Brenden hums, and it’s impressive how smug he sounds.

“Is it bad that I kinda get turned on by the smell of sunscreen now?” Brenden asks, pulling away from Martin and patting on the bed. “You know, from seeing you in the pool or something.”

“You have to figure that out on your own,” Martin says, moving up so he can lie down properly. “And I guess you’ve always been kinda gross.”

Brenden laughs, standing up to turn off the light and strip out of his boxer briefs. The blinds have been thrown open all day, and the moonlight streams in through the window. Martin gives him a slow once-over—who is he kidding. He’s so easy for Brenden it’s almost a problem.

“You’re gonna have to be more naked before we can do anything,” Brenden says, light, and Martin waits until Brenden knees onto the bed and lies down next to him. He brushes his knuckles against Martin’s cheek.

Brenden’s smiling against his mouth as his hands slip under Martin’s shirt, rucking up the fabric as his palms press decisively against his ribs. Martin shudders when a thumb brushes against his nipple, fingers pressing light enough to be ticklish against his skin.

“I thought you were helping,” Martin says, and the complaint would be more believable if it didn’t come out so breathy.

“Journey, not the destination,” Brenden says, mock-wisely, but he does tug Martin’s shirt over his head, chucks it onto the floor as he runs his hand down Martin’s ribs. He turns the both of them easily, until Martin’s lying on his back. He looks up at Brenden hovering over him, propped on his elbows and knees.

“Hey,” Martin says, quiet and a little shy. Brenden’s bracketing his face with his arms, and he curls one hand around Brenden’s elbow.

“Hi,” Brenden murmurs, leaning down to nip gently at Martin’s lip. “Wanna tell me what you want?”

“I want you to fuck me,” Martin says, turning his head into Brenden’s arm, ostensibly for a soft kiss. Really, it’s easier to say when he’s not looking into Brenden’s eyes. The embarrassment would turn him into a puddle.

Brenden kisses the corner of Martin’s mouth. Smiles. It’s a little overwhelming. Just a little, though.

He pulls away to rifle through the bedside table. Martin turns to watch him, the way that the moonlight outlines his face, the strong set of his jaw. He thinks, rather seriously, that he could spend a lot of time just—looking at him.

“I don’t wanna be that person, but can I just say it’s a little funny you have lube but no condoms in your bedside drawer?” Brenden says as he shifts his way back, bottle clutched in one hand, kneeling between Martin’s legs.

“Why were you looking for condoms anyway?” Martin grumps. “We’re way past letting you come in me.”

Brenden snorts, though Martin is a little pleased by the way that he seems flustered at the reminder. Martin isn’t the most sexually adventurous, sure, but he knows what makes Brenden tick.

Brenden pats him on his hip, and Martin lifts a little, makes enough space for Brenden to help him pull off his boxers. He’s already hard, cock curving against his stomach. He’s half-expecting a snide comment, but Brenden just leans down, drops a quick kiss against the top of Martin’s knee.

Martin hears the click of the cap as it opens and closes, breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth. He twitches a little when he feels the first press of Brenden’s slick finger against his hole; not pushing, just touching. A slow movement back and forth.

“Okay?” Brenden checks, and Martin nods.

It’s still a slight shock when Brenden pushes his finger in, but it’s easy enough to relax into. They don’t get to do this much during the season—Martin had been clear about that when they started this, and Brenden’s always been okay with it, but Martin suspects he would have put his dick in a cage if that’s what Martin wanted.

It isn’t like they _don’t_ have sex regularly. They probably have sex a little too regularly. But penetration is weird enough as it is without the weight of being a professional shooting target on his shoulders. He’d rather not have to deal with it all, the headspace of getting fucked, tangled up with the regularly scheduled goalie stuff. When it’s summer it’s like Martin can finally relax for a couple of weeks. Take off the mask, as it were.

Martin touches the short, soft hairs at the back of Brenden’s neck. He thinks that for someone who’s so big it’s weird to know how delicate some parts of him are. And that Martin _knows_ that in the first place—it’s hard to wrap his head around it, sometimes.

Brenden looms into view, and Martin stares at him, the dark hair curling around his ears, the slight reflection of light in his eyes.

“Hey there,” he says, grinning down at Martin. “Don’t mind me. Just looking.”

“I _will_ cover my face,” Martin half-threatens.

Brenden leans down, kisses him in the middle of his chest.

“What happened to the—” Martin motions with his hand something that could be generously considered a reference to fingering.

“Oh, I’ll get back to it. Just don’t wanna ignore this,” Brenden says, and he licks a broad stroke along the length of Martin’s dick, presses a smacking kiss just under the head.

Martin says something like “oh,” except it’s lost a little in the shuddery inhale. Brenden’s laughing quietly, looks up at Martin as he licks and sucks up his cock, infuriatingly gentle. Martin’s staring at the ceiling, trying not to come _already_ , god, Brenden’s gonna be too smug for him to handle if he comes right now.

He barely notices when Brenden pushes two fingers into him next, quick and easy. He slowly fucks his fingers in, brushes lightly against Martin’s prostate with practiced experience.

“Unfair,” Martin breathes, and Brenden grins at him.

Three fingers is an uncomfortable stretch. Martin winces at the feeling, just this side of too much. Brenden is quick to react, pulls his fingers out just to press two back in, biting a red mark into the crease of Martin’s thigh.

Two fingers is too easy, but Brenden’s moving painfully slowly. Martin’s fingers press into the back of Brenden’s neck as he rocks gently into his pace.

“You okay?” Brenden asks, and he laughs when Martin nods furiously. “Alright, got it.”

Brenden works three fingers in again, and this time, the slide is easier. Martin bites his lip, tries to keep himself from making a truly embarrassing noise. He’s getting impatient—it’s enough to make his stomach swoop but not _enough_. He’s pretty sure Brenden’s doing this on purpose.

When Brenden finally sits up on his heels, Martin can take a breath. He feels the blush on his face, skin hot. Brenden’s looking down at him, and he _would_ look pleased and smug.

“On your back?”

Martin stares at Brenden for a second until the words finally make sense, and he shakes his head. Martin turns over onto his hands and knees, cracks his neck as he looks over his shoulder.

“Interesting,” Brenden says, and his voice is dripping with approval.

“Don’t be weird,” Martin replies.

Brenden leans over him, his cock pressed against Martin’s ass, kisses the back of his neck. “Ready?”

Martin hums, and Brenden curls one sure hand around his wrist before he pushes in. The blunt head of Brenden’s cock is almost too much of a stretch to take, but when he finally pushes past Martin’s rim it might as well be perfect. Brenden takes his time, sliding in inch by excruciatingly slow inch. Martin almost wants to tell Brenden to hurry up, but he’s certain that he’ll get chirped for his impatience. Even now he can’t give Brenden that win.

“You okay?” Brenden asks, and Martin can feel his breath against the back of his neck.

“More than,” Martin replies, his voice embarrassingly thin. Brenden noses along the soft hairs at the back of his neck, and it makes him shiver.

“Good,” he says, and he sounds so _fond_. It’s almost unbearably sweet.

Brenden pulls out a little before he pushes back in, and Martin shoves his face into the pillow with a groan.

“I love the sounds you make. I ever tell you that?” Brenden says, his words pressed just behind Martin’s ear. “You should be noisier, but this is good too.”

“You talk too much sometimes,” Martin pants, his hand tightening helplessly in the short curls at the base of Brenden’s neck. He feels Brenden’s chuckle more than he hears it, a vibration rumbling through his chest.

“You like it when I talk,” Brenden murmurs, and he’s so, _so_ right. He also isn’t moving. Martin will admit to it if Brenden just—

Brenden traces up the length of Martin’s cock, fingers too light to be anything but a tease. Martin hisses, twitches when Brenden bites softly at the sensitive lip of his ear. His face is burning, and Brenden’s a solid weight against him. It’s almost too much. Almost.

When Martin comes, it’s like the air’s been knocked out of him. He pants into the pillow while Brenden jerks him through it, and it feels like he’s been wrung dry. He shudders at Brenden’s last touch, just this side of painfully sensitive, and Brenden kisses his shoulder, slick hand pushing a rough line up Martin’s stomach.

“Don’t wipe my own come on me,” Martin says.

“I clearly didn’t do a good job if you’re still snarking,” Brenden says, laughing breathlessly.

He’s starting to lose his pace, and it makes Martin’s toes curl. He can’t get hard again, not this fast, but it just feels _good_. Good enough that Martin wants to keep chasing all of it: the pressure of Brenden’s hand on his wrist, the arrhythmic brushes of his cock against Martin’s prostate, Brenden breathing hard against his ear. He wonders, for just a moment, why they don’t do this more often.

Brenden grunts softly when he comes, his face buried into Martin’s shoulder. His teeth scrape against the skin, gentle enough that Martin knows he’s holding himself back, and he wonders what it would be like, to let Brenden mark him like that. Rough him up a little. He’s more okay with the idea than he thinks he used to be. If it’s Brenden, it’d be good.

It takes a second for Martin to categorize their bodies. Brenden’s lying half on him, breathing hard. He’s running one hand up and down Martin’s side. Martin turns his head to face him, their foreheads grazing together. Brenden’s looking at him, eyes half-lidded.

“Do you wanna shower again?” Brenden asks.

“I’ll do it tomorrow,” Martin says, closer to sleep than he thought he’d be.

“I’ll get a towel, at least,” Brenden decides. He sits up, but takes a moment to gently cuff Martin’s jaw. “Sleep. I’ll handle it.”

Martin takes him at his word.

 

Brenden actually decides to plant the rooftop garden, waking Martin at nine in the morning to drag him to the local plant nursery.

“Why can’t we go later?” Martin mumbles, his face smushed into the pillow. “It’s not like the plants are going anywhere.”

“Early bird gets the worm.” Brenden’s flopped half on top of Martin, kisses him on the back of his neck. It makes him shiver. “Up and at ‘em. We’ll get brunch after.”

Martin sighs, turns his head to look at Brenden. He could probably convince Brenden to stay in bed, maybe sleeping until noon. But—they have plenty of time. They can always do that. He says, “You can’t bribe me. But yeah, I’ll go with you.”

They’re out of the house within fifteen minutes, and it’s a short drive out to the nursery. Before too long they’re walking between rows of plants, Martin absently touching the slick leaves surrounding him. Brenden already has the herbs he wants listed on an index card, and he’s got four or five plants set on their trolley.

“The orchids are pretty,” he says thoughtfully. He pinches one of the petals between his fingers, looks at the soft gradient between white and purple.

“Aren’t they hard to take care of?” Martin asks. “And they’d be outside, too. I feel like you might kill them.”

“They’d probably do alright,” Brenden says, but he sounds a little more uncertain now.

He finally settles on two trays full of succulents, which seem simple enough to take care of according to Google. Fast-draining soil, plenty of sun. Martin helps him pick out the specific ones to bring home: a couple that are a little red, then some that grow more upright than the others. Variety is good, he thinks. Brenden gets a bag of soil for them too, and they drop everything off at home, piled in the foyer, before heading out again.

“You know a good brunch place?” Brenden asks, dusting his hands off on his shorts. “I can Yelp it if you want.”

“I’ve been to one that’s about a ten minute walk,” Martin says. “It’s a weekend, so parking might be hard.”

“Lead the way,” Brenden says, grinning.

It takes about fifteen minutes to get a seat, but Martin thinks it’s worth it. They split two orders of Belgian waffles and an omelet, a massive carafe of bottomless orange juice.

“We should probably buy some actual groceries at some point,” Brenden says, dousing his waffles in maple syrup. “You know, cook some food.”

“Or we could keep eating waffles from nice brunch places,” Martin argues.

“I can make waffles,” Brenden says, smiling. “Those gluten-free ones you say you hate but still eat a platter of.”

“They’re not _bad_. They’re just not as good as real waffles,” Martin replies. “I’ll eat what you make. I don’t wanna make you feel bad.”

Brenden laughs. “It does make me happy when you eat my cooking. As long as you keep eating them, I’ll keep making them.”

Martin has a distinct feeling that’s an admission of... something. Brenden casually—perhaps too casually—continues cutting into his omelet. Martin pokes him with his foot under the table.

 

When they get home, the sun’s high and beating down. It’s a breezy day, but there’s barely a cloud in the sky. There’s no shade on the terrace, so Martin slathers himself in sunscreen first; the last thing he wants is to get sunburned on vacation. When he heads out onto the terrace, Brenden’s brought the last two bottles of the six pack with him, his plants already lined up to arrange in the boxes.

“The succulents need the most sun, so they should be out from under the awning, I think,” Brenden says, pouring succulent soil out into the planter. “And the herbs should go on the outer edges, where they’ll be easy to get to. Maybe we can get some trellises and lean them up against the wall, grow some tomatoes or something.”

Martin helps press the soil to the edges of the box, dig little holes for the succulents. There’s a lot of them, at least thirty, and they’re about the size of a Post-It, but apparently they need a little space so they can grow well.

“I think you crumble the soil from the roots so you can let the plant sit in the new soil, and then you just smooth it all out,” Brenden says, carefully patting the soil around his first succulent. “That should be it.”

“Looks good,” Martin says, and he follows Brenden’s instructions.

It takes them about twenty minutes to plant a row, making sure to brush off excess dirt from leaves and check that the crowns are raised above the soil. Brenden wipes at his forehead, drinks the last of his beer. They’ve gotten through most of one tray, and there should be just enough space for the second.

“I’m gonna grab a water,” Martin says, standing. “Want another beer?”

“Nah, but a water would be great,” Brenden replies. “Thanks.”

Martin goes inside, fills two cups with water. He can just see the top of Brenden’s head when he looks out the window, dipping in and out of view. Brenden straightens his back to stretch and notices him watching, and Martin can just see the way that his eyes crease up when he smiles.

The glasses full, he heads back out onto the terrace, hands one of them over to Brenden. If he’s blushing, it’s just because he was out in the sun.

“It’s looking good,” Brenden says, wiping at his forehead. Both planters are almost full, plump succulents basking in the sunlight.

“These were a good choice,” Martin agrees. “Derek’s gonna be very impressed.”

“I only need to water them when the soil is dry. Once a week, maybe. They kinda just do their own thing.” Brenden’s smiling as he stands, cracking his back. “He gets free plants, and we take care of them for him. Definitely got the better end of the deal.”

Martin finishes planting the rest of the succulents while Brenden settles the herbs where he wants them to be. With everything planted, they take a step back to survey their work.

“Awesome,” Brenden says. “I’ve always wanted to grow herbs at the condo in San Jose.”

“It looks like they don’t need a lot of space. You could probably put it on the balcony, or just in a sunny window,” Martin replies, touching a thyme stem.

“Yeah, I think I’ll do it when I get back,” Brenden says, rolling up the leftover bag of soil. “This didn’t take too long. We still have plenty of day left to run errands.”

Martin groans. “Let’s sit on the sofa for like, half an hour. And then I’ll be okay with grocery shopping.”

Brenden chuckles. “Okay, half an hour.”

Forty-five minutes later, Brenden is half-asleep against Martin, feet propped up on the coffee table. He’s rubbing his thumb against the creases of Martin’s palm, face buried into the shoulder of Martin’s t-shirt.

“We’ll go grocery shopping tomorrow,” Brenden mumbles, settling more comfortably against Martin. “Pizza for dinner?”

“Pizza for dinner,” Martin agrees. He leans his head against Brenden’s hair, breathes in the soft, spicy smell of him. “And I’ll even let you pick what we get.”

Brenden laughs softly, a low rumble that Martin feels more than he hears. “You’re the kindest person I’ve ever met,” he says. He’s aiming for sarcastic, but it comes out soft, fond. He holds Martin’s hand a little tighter, and Martin presses a gentle kiss against his temple, lips brushing against his curls.

 

“You know, I think my trainer is trying to kill me every year,” Brenden groans, lying face-down on the couch, “but this might be the summer he actually succeeds.”

“Dramatic,” Martin says. He’s searching through the drawers in the hallway bathroom. Derek barely keeps anything in the apartment for someone who lives there eight months a year—though, in fairness, neither does Martin.

“Just wait until _your_ trainer tries to murder you with exercise,” Brenden says, muffled. “And we’ll see if you complain as little as I do.”

Martin finally finds the tube of that weird capsaicin cream next to a box of toothpaste, goes back to the living room where Brenden is pitifully nursing his wounds.

“Where does it hurt?” Martin asks. Brenden directs his hand to a spot just under his shoulder blade, and Martin sticks his hand under his shirt, gently rubs the cream into his back.

“My legs too, please,” Brenden says. Martin figures this is partially because Brenden just wants to get doted on, but he decides not to call him out on it just yet.

Brenden turns his head. “When do you do that goalie thing? The nerd stuff?”

“It’s not nerd stuff,” Martin says.

“I think a bunch of goalies getting together to talk about goalie gear is pretty nerdy, Martin.”

“That’s just because you don’t get it,” Martin says, and he wishes he didn’t sound so much like a teenager defending his weird hobbies.

Brenden laughs, then groans when Martin presses into a particularly nasty knot. “Okay, when is the not-nerdy goalie stuff?”

“Two weeks,” Martin says. He caps the tube. “It’s in Burnaby, so I won’t be gone too long.”

Brenden hums. “You’ll be taking the car then?”

“Yeah. Sorry to strand you here.”

Brenden turns onto his back, stretches his arms gently with a wince. “Nah. I’ll figure out something to do.”

“Don’t get all mopey without me,” Martin says, and Brenden pulls him in by his arm, kisses him on the cheek.

“Don’t project,” Brenden says, cheerful. The upsetting part is that Brenden’s kinda right.

Martin leans down for another kiss, kneels up onto the couch so it’s a little easier. Brenden hums against his mouth, slides his hand down to graze his fingers lightly against the front of Martin’s boxers.

“Do you mind washing your hands first?” Brenden asks, rubbing his thumb over Martin’s cheek. “Don’t know if I enjoy the idea of that spicy stuff on my dick.”

“Who says I’m gonna touch your dick?” Martin asks, straight-faced.

Brenden laughs, puts one hand on Martin’s waist and turns them both. It’s a little difficult, and Martin’s limbs are of no help, but he’s finally deposited with his back against the cushions. “Suit yourself then.”

Brenden tugs down the waistband of Martin’s boxers, slides his thumb up the slit of his dick. Martin’s half-hard already, and he twitches into the sensation. Brenden gets his hand around him, a frustratingly loose hold, and Martin’s not proud of his squirming. He shifts to help Brenden with his pants, fingers hooking into the waistband, but Brenden grabs him by the wrist, pins it above his head.

“I said no spicy stuff on my dick,” Brenden says cheerfully. Martin blinks up at him. He adds, “And besides, you said you didn’t want to.”

“I didn’t say that exactly,” Martin replies.

“Ah, well. Guess that’s just how it is,” Brenden says, absent. He shoves his sweats and boxer briefs down the rest of the way, spits into his hand before he wraps his palm around the both of them.

“Oh,” Martin says. He swallows.

“Okay?”

“I, uh, it’s not bad. Pretty good actually,” Martin says, stuttering in the middle when Brenden starts moving his hand. Brenden grins at him.

Brenden jerks them off together, a steady pace that makes Martin’s toes curl. He thrusts into it a little, and Brenden makes a pleased sound in response, presses their foreheads together. Martin grabs a handful of Brenden’s shirt, fingernails scraping between his shoulders.

Martin’s breathing against Brenden’s mouth when he comes, drags him in closer to kiss him through it. Brenden follows him after, palm still rubbing against Martin’s dick, just shy of being too sensitive. Martin would complain when Brenden drops his weight on him, breathing hard into the column of his neck, but it _is_ pretty nice. He figures Brenden can stay there for a little bit.

“I really hope we didn’t get come on the couch,” Martin says finally, and Brenden laughs.

“Problem for later us,” Brenden suggests.

“You got come on my shirt though,” Martin says, looking down at himself.

“So did you,” Brenden says. He stands, takes Martin’s hand and pulls him up. “Shower?”

“As long as you don’t stand under the spray the whole time again,” Martin replies, and Brenden snorts.

 

Martin’s sister was the one who suggested the annual summer scrimmage, getting their family together for a fun, mildly competitive game. One ref and no checking, technically, but there’s plenty of jostling. She plans it all: from booking the ice to handling the post-game barbecue to sending the slightly threatening texts to get cousins to show up.

He looks forward to it; it’s a good way to keep up with extended family that live too far to visit often. But this year he nearly forgets about it, and it’s not _really_ his fault. Brenden is... distracting. Regardless, Martin only actually remembers that there’s another scrimmage coming up when his sister calls him in the middle of the afternoon, asking him why he hasn’t RSVPed yet.

“I didn’t get your email,” Martin says, staring at the read message sent a week ago, lying in his inbox. He genuinely can’t remember having opened it.

“Uh-huh.” She sounds entirely unconvinced. “I’ll re-send it then. By the way, Danny says he might not be able to come. You wouldn’t happen to know any defensemen living in the Vancouver area, would you?”

“I... might know one,” Martin says slowly. Brenden glances at him from the other side of the couch, eyebrows raised. “Um, I’ll—give him a call.”

“Sure,” she says, stretching out the vowel. “Say hi to Dilly for me and tell him the baby loves the onesie he sent. See you soon, Marty.”

Martin mumbles bye, rests his phone on his chest.

“You look like you got terrible news,” Brenden says. He spoons more cereal into his mouth. “Who got traded?”

Martin laughs. “So dramatic. It was my sister. We have this family scrimmage we do every summer, and she says my cousin might not be able to make it. We need another d-man, apparently, and she asked me if I knew any.”

Brenden hums. “The Jones family scrimmage? Sounds like fun.”

“You don’t have to if you’re not feeling it,” Martin replies. He clicks through the link in the email to the form. “It’s up to you.”

“I’ll go. Why not?” Brenden says with a grin. “And if your cousin shows up then I can ride the pine.”

Martin types _Brenden may show up_ into the “additional comments” box in the form (Kelly is way too prepared on these kinds of things). “If you change your mind, just let me know then.”

Brenden kindly pats him on the shin before throwing the blanket off and heading to the kitchen with his empty bowl. “If you’re worried I’ll score on you, you should be.”

 

“The scrimmage is this Saturday, if you’re not busy,” Martin says while they’re getting ready for bed. Brenden’s brushing his teeth, and Martin watches him through the open doorway. “We have a barbecue afterwards.”

“Sounds good,” Brenden says, voice muffled from his toothbrush. “We should bring something.”

“I’ll ask Kelly if there’s anything in particular she wants,” Martin replies. “We can pick it up before the game.”

Brenden comes out of the bathroom and tumbles into bed. “By the way, my trainer said he’s on vacation for a few days. So I’m all yours this weekend.” He grins sunnily at Martin.

“You think you’re so cute,” Martin deadpans, turning off the lamp on the nightstand before settling himself under the blankets. Brenden laughs softly, throws an arm around Martin’s waist.

“You know, you don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” Martin says. “Danny always shows up eventually.”

“I can hang out here if you wanna go by yourself,” Brenden says, after a short pause. “Would you prefer I didn’t go?”

“It’s not that,” Martin says. “Just—you’ve met my siblings and parents and you know they like you. I guess I’m worried about everyone else. I don’t want them to make you feel uncomfortable or anything.”

“Aw,” Brenden croons, and Martin’s smiling even as he rolls his eyes. “You care so much, babe.”

“I just want them to like you like I do,” Martin mumbles. Saying it out loud sounds ridiculous. Everyone likes Brenden.

Brenden scoots closer to him, kisses him on the corner of his mouth. His breath is all minty, and he’s so warm pressed all along Martin’s side.

“As long as you like me, we’re all good,” Brenden says, resting his head on the pillow. He yawns. “Anyways, everyone likes me.”

Martin snorts. “We’ll see about that.”

Brenden chuckles, tucks in a little closer against Martin’s neck.

 

Martin has the trays of lettuce and sliced tomatoes balanced on his lap as they head out to the rink. It’s a late-morning game, just in time for a barbecue lunch.

“Let me help you with that,” Brenden says when he parks, opening the door and coming around the front of the car so he can get the trays off Martin’s lap. “We don’t have to keep these in the car, do we?”

“Kelly has a table inside,” Martin replies, stepping out of the car. “We’ll drop it off there.”

Martin has his hands full with his bag, pads, and stick, so Brenden carries the trays inside. There’s already some players milling around, half-dressed and waiting for the Zamboni to come off the ice. Martin waves, gives some people one-armed hugs on his way over to the rink.

Kelly’s just outside the locker rooms, chatting with some family who are watching, her hair tied up and t-shirt tucked into her hockey pants. She looks up when she sees them, finishes up her conversation as she starts walking over. She hugs both of them, gives Martin a quick squeeze.

“You showed up!” she says, like she wasn’t expecting Martin at all.

“I RSVPed,” Martin says, smiling. “If I didn’t show up you probably would’ve tracked me down.”

“You bet I would,” Kelly says. “We only have two goalies in the family, you know. I’m not about to put the tutor in net.”

“Is everyone here yet?” Martin asks, putting his bag down. Brenden’s putting the trays with the rest of the food, set up on a table by the locker rooms.

“Nearly. We’re still waiting on a few people. Danny showed up,” Kelly says, sighing. She waves Brenden over. “But Roger brought an extra white jersey, Brenden, and we’d love you in the game.”

“Sounds good,” Brenden replies as he comes back. “Which locker room are they in?”

Kelly points him in the right direction, and Brenden heads off. “You can survive an hour without him, right?” she asks, nudging Martin in the ribs.

“I’m not _that_ attached,” Martin protests, following her into the locker room.

She laughs, helps him with the door. “Well, just don’t let him score any easy goals.”

“For him? Never,” Martin replies, smiling.

 

It’s a fun game: not competitive enough to be mean, but there’s definitely some light-hearted ribbing. Most of them grew up playing shinny with a couple making swings through the minors, but nowadays they play a game on the weekends with beer leagues. No one’s really in shape anymore, so Martin’s work isn’t too difficult, but he does let in a few nasty deflections.

Brenden doesn’t score, but he get two assists, which is two points Martin definitely could’ve prevented him from getting. He’s chirping as he swings behind the net, carrying the puck, and Martin windmills the glove save just to be a dick.

They take a picture together after, Martin’s dad shouting after Brenden to get back in the picture when he tries to skate out of frame. They’ve booked the ice for an hour and a half so they can bring the kids out. Everyone’s milling around, chatting and taking shots on the net together. Martin skates over to the benches, glances around for the waters.

Brenden hops up onto the boards next to him, grins at all of Martin’s relatives yelling at each other to try and get more pictures in before the Zamboni driver kicks them off.

“Good skate,” Brenden says, handing over a bottle or water. “Don’t forget I score on you all the time during practice.”

Martin laughs, wipes at the sweaty hair clinging uncomfortably to his forehead. “it’s good to know you’ll never score on me during a game, at least.”

“So I’m doing my job right,” Brenden argues. He reaches over, brushes the offending clump of hair off of his eyelashes. “There.”

Martin chugs his water, hands it back to Brenden when he’s done.

“Teams were uneven,” Brenden says after a short pause, overly casual.

“Yeah, well,” Martin mumbles, “I told you Danny would show up.”

Brenden looks at him, but Martin’s pretending to fiddle with his glove. When Martin glances at him, he’s got this quiet little smile on his lips.

 

The barbecue is nice, if exhausting. He’s always happy to see family again; they’re not particularly close-knit or anything, but they’re fun to be around. The sly conversations about Brenden from well-meaning family members is fine the first two or three times, but after the sixth winking reference to Brenden’s presence, Martin’s ready to combust. Or, like, hide in the car. Instead, he eats too many burgers and really perfects his awkward laugh.

It’s not that he doesn’t like talking about Brenden, or being in public with him. It’s just that he doesn’t see a reason to talk about their relationship with other people more than strictly necessary. It made sense to tell Derek, since they’d be living in his house and all. The team knows because it feels weird to keep it hidden from the people they’re surrounded by almost every waking hour for eight or so months (and it’s not like they could find out on their own—Martin thinks they’re nice, but they’re not the brightest room in the league). His parents and siblings were a no-brainer. For everyone else—it’s just not their business. Martin thinks, rather grumpily, that Brenden is _his_ to figure out, and if anyone else wants to know about him then they can try and date him.

Brenden wanders over eventually, after making a huge circle around the group. He’s always been good with people, friendly and warm and easy to get along with. He puts a comfortable hand on Martin’s back, smiles at him.

“I could see you looking like you want to leave from across the parking lot,” Brenden says, and Martin really loves him more than anyone. “Let’s call it a day, huh?”

“Absolutely.” Martin rolls his shoulders. “If I field one more weird sex joke about you I’m gonna lose it.”

Brenden laughs. “You should go say bye to everyone then.”

Martin hugs his sister and brother, gets some good-natured ribbing from his dad for leaving so soon before he hugs his parents. He promises to go to lunch with them next week.

“Bring Brenden!” Martin’s mom calls after him, and he smiles at her, waving, as he walks to their car.

Brenden heaves a sigh as he turns out of the parking lot. “Your family is great, don’t get me wrong, but—man, they’re really a lot, huh?”

Martin laughs, waves out the window at everyone. “Yeah, I did warn you. They’re definitely worse in person. It’s amazing they exhausted even you.”

Brenden shoves him playfully. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“People like you right away, you know?” Martin shrugs. “You get along with everyone, and you’re so laid back.”

“Sometimes even I need to go hide at home,” Brenden replies. He glances at Martin while they’re stopped at a red light. “And I don’t wanna sound rude, but your family is extremely... intense. So I guess that runs in the Joneses?”

“Intense,” Martin repeats, rolling his eyes with a smile. “They just—I’ve never brought anyone to a family thing before, you know?”

Brenden hums. “No wonder they loved me so much. Hey, we both destroyed our diet today, so we can pick up ice cream if it’s the low sugar stuff, right?”

“If I never told you I loved you yet, this would be the time,” Martin says, deadpan.

Brenden grins at him. “I wish you told me it was that easy a year ago,” he quips, and this time it’s Martin’s turn to shove him.

 

They make it back to the apartment about half an hour later, with ice cream and also some vegetables because Brenden felt guilty.

“Mark isn’t going to sense you eating dessert,” Martin says, opening the door. “Not during the off-season, anyway.”

“I had a dream he put me in a jail cell for eating a sundae once,” Brenden confesses. “It was so _real_. I wanna keep the bad vibes as far away as I can.”

“Is that why you woke up in a cold sweat a week ago?”

“That was a different dream,” Brenden says with a sigh. “Still got yelled at though. Mike made fun of my arms and said I needed to lift more.”

“Well, I think your arms are great,” Martin says, putting the head of broccoli into the crisper. “Dream Mike can fuck off.”

Brenden chuckles, cracking the lid off the ice cream. “Can you get bowls, babe? Let’s try not to eat the whole carton.”

Forty-five minutes later, they’re four episodes deep in an _Ozark_ marathon, bowls scraped clean and stacked on the coffee table. They’ve tipped over on the couch, Martin half on Brenden and absently tracing the pocket on Brenden’s tank top. It’s barely dinner time, but Martin’s practically asleep and ready to take a nap.

“What should we do for dinner?” Brenden murmurs. His thumb strokes pleasantly against Martin’s neck, rubbing circles against the short hairs. It’s almost ticklish, but in a nice way.

Martin shrugs and yawns. “I’m ready to sleep, honestly,” he says. “Maybe something quick? Do we still have leftovers?”

Brenden hums. “I think we can do sandwiches. Are you hungry right now?”

Martin shakes his head. “Not yet.”

“You’re gonna fall asleep for real if you stay like this,” Brenden says, levering himself upright. Martin makes an indignant and slightly embarrassing noise when he’s jostled, leaning heavily against Brenden’s shoulder. “Come on. Let’s make some food and you can fall asleep in a nice bed.”

“Shower,” Martin mumbles, taking Brenden’s hand. “I’m not sleeping next to you when you smell like a rink shower.”

“Okay, a shower first,” Brenden agrees, grabbing the bowls and putting them in the sink. “What do you want on your sandwich?”

 

Brenden flops into bed, happily nuzzling against the sheets. Martin laughs quietly from the other side of the bed. His hair is still a little damp, clinging to his forehead and temples. He’s already got the blanket wrapped around himself and pulled up to his chin, pleasantly cozy.

“Mmph, give me some blanket,” Brenden says, tugging ineffectually at a corner of the comforter. It’s the middle of summer, but it still gets a little chilly at night.

“Come here,” Martin says, only a little pouty.

Brenden scoots closer, and Martin opens the blanket like it’s a cloak, dropping the edge down around Brenden’s body. He happily lifts Martin’s shirt and presses his hands against his back.

“Cold,” Martin complains, but he also makes no effort to move.

Brenden kisses him on the forehead, gently rubs his back. Martin’s breathing is slowing as he starts falling asleep, his eyes open in vague slits.

“I’m glad you like my family,” Martin says, so quiet. “You’re gonna be dealing with them for the rest of your life.”

Brenden chuckles, carefully brushes the curls off Martin’s forehead. “You sound really certain about that.”

“You’re stuck with me forever too,” Martin replies, and he sounds so smug for someone who’s half-asleep.

“That’d be okay,” Brenden says, and Martin’s smiling when he falls asleep.

 

They start packing up the apartment two weeks before training camp starts. Brenden marvels at how much _stuff_ they managed to collect in a few short months, their things strewn all over the penthouse. Martin doesn’t have the heart to tell him that all of it is Brenden’s. He just likes nesting.

“On the bright side the plants are doing really well,” Brenden says, closing the sliding door. “So your friend’s gonna be happy about that, I hope.”

“Sucks we can’t bring any of them back to San Jose,” Martin says, cleaning their dishes from lunch. “You took really good care of them.”

“I’ll start over, probably,” Brenden says with a shrug. He leans his chin on Martin’s shoulder, blows into his ear just to be annoying. “You ready to go back?”

“Dunno. Feels a little weird. I like the summer break, you know.”

Brenden laughs, wraps his arms around Martin’s waist and kisses the back of his neck. “Don’t pretend like you hate playing hockey.”

“It’s fine,” Martin says, and he can feel Brenden smiling against him. “I can see the appeal.”

“Thanks for letting me live with you,”

“Thanks for living with me,” Martin replies, quiet, and it’s as much an admission as anything else. “I was worried you wouldn’t want to.”

Brenden shifts from behind him, leans an elbow against the counter. “Did you really think that?”

Martin shrugs. “I didn’t want to ask if you were doing other things.”

Brenden sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You realize doing _you_ was my only plan for the summer, right?”

“You don’t have to say it like that,” Martin says, weakly.

“Seriously, Martin.” Brenden laughs, exasperated. “The only reason I asked what you were planning is because I got tired of waiting for you to bring it up.”

“You could’ve asked too,” Martin argues.

“I told you I had no plans!” Brenden says, throwing his hands up. “You know I come back here every summer.”

“Maybe we’re both bad at this,” Martin says, and Brenden snorts.

“It’s possible,” he replies, though it’s with a tone like he’s letting Martin win this one. He drags Martin closer with one arm, leans his forehead against his shoulder. “You’re lucky I like you so much.”

“We’ve been over this,” Martin says. The plate he’s holding is dripping soap suds all over the counter, but he can’t really bring himself to care. “I really am.”

Brenden grins, and Martin leans in to kiss him first.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm slightly more prolific on [Tumblr](http://arzoensis.tumblr.com). Okay, who am I kidding: I can barely string four words together. But that's where you can talk to me if you'd like. If I don't get back to you on comments, I'm very sorry—but they're always deeply appreciated.


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